


ornaments

by impossiblepluto



Series: have yourself a fluffy, whumpy christmas [12]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: (it's Mama MacGyver), Angst, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: A ghost of Christmases past, and a hopeful look towards the future.
Series: have yourself a fluffy, whumpy christmas [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552330
Comments: 32
Kudos: 75





	ornaments

Bozer pulls out an oversized shoe box. The packaging from a sneaker in a style Jack hasn’t seen since the mid-nineties. Bozer looks up at Mac, his roommate carefully engrossed in the journal article he’s reading. That he’s been reading since Bozer lowered the attic ladder and started emptying the crawl space between the rafters.

Jack jumped up to help, his mama raised a gentleman, and polite house guest, after all. And since Bozer spent the day before cooking a feast that proves how thankful he is that Mac made it home safe and sound and didn’t allow Jack to help, the least he can do is tote a few boxes. He’s watching the exchange, or lack of exchange between Mac and Bozer carefully. Mac pulls his legs onto the couch to make room on the coffee table but he doesn’t look up or acknowledge that the living room is starting to look like a college dorm on move in day, with so many boxes and Rubbermaid containers there’s no way there will be space for everything. 

Except that Bozer can tell Jack exactly where to put every box. 

“Southwest corner of the living room, Jack. Stack it on top of the green one.” 

“Put this one on the far edge of the hearth.”

“Set this one on the starboard side of the arm chair.”

Jack shoots him a look, pulling away from accepting the box Bozer is handing to him. “We’re using Navy terms in your Christmas decorating?”

“Thought you’d appreciate the military precision and efficiency.”

“It’s the Navy.”

“But the SEALs man, doesn’t everybody secretly idolize the SEALs?” 

“Wimpy little water babies,” Jack grumbles, but he catches Mac’s mouth twitching as he flips the page of his article. 

Shoe box in hand, Bozer watches Mac. He makes no other attempt to join the conversation or show that he's even listening. With a sigh, and a nod to himself, Bozer sets the shoe box on the table near the kitchen. Despite the disarray, and the sheer number of boxes the cover every inch of the living room, it’s the only box Bozer sets there. 

Mac raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, but otherwise doesn’t react, doesn’t move, doesn’t lose his spot in his reading. 

Jack watches the exchange quietly. He catches Bozer’s eye and the younger man gives a small shake of his head. He buries the question for later and continues pulling out greenery and untangling Christmas lights. 

Bozer attacks the decorating like a Delta raid, not the SEALs, thank you very much. The tree is up in record time, the branches fluffed and lights twinkling merrily in the corner, holly on the mantle and three Christmas stockings, well two stocking and a crewcut sock, much to Bozer's annoyance, hang over the fireplace when Bozer calls for a leftover pie and hot chocolate break. 

Mac wanders into the kitchen with them. He divides up the remaining half of the pie into three large slices, murmuring numbers to himself while Bozer stirs a pot of hot chocolate on the stove and Jack rummages through the fridge for whipped cream. 

“Are you actually doing math to divide up the pie?” Jack teases and Mac smirks.

“You’ll thank me when the slice are equal,” Mac says, handing Jack a plate, before taking his own to sit at the table, still ignoring the shoe box.

Jack’s never been a big fan of pumpkin pie, too bland for his extra sweet, sweet tooth, but this might be the best dessert he’s ever eaten. Or maybe it has something to do with being home, safe from IEDs and people shooting at him and Mac. He savors each bite, watching as Mac inhales his, as if he hasn’t eaten in days instead of hours. Though at twenty-one years old, it probably feels the same, and Jack’s glad to see his appetite returning. 

Mac is twirling his fork between his fingers, bending the two middle prongs, slowly building a tower of utensils that balance on the rim of his glass, grinning at Jack when he notices he’s got an audience. 

“If you’re done playing with your food,” Bozer teases, reaching across the table for Mac’s empty plate and causing Mac’s careful construction of forks to tumble. 

“Ah, Bozer,” Jack says at the forks clatter against the tabletop. “You made it fall.”

“He’s been doing this since we were kids, this wasn’t even one of the cool ones. Wait until it starts lighting toothpicks on fire,” Bozer says as he walks into the kitchen and begins rinsing plates in the sink. 

Mac leans back in his chair smiling, and his eyes fall on the box at his elbow again. 

“What’s in the box,” Jack finally asks, keeping his tone light and even but curiosity getting the better of him.

Mac shrugs. “Just some… stuff.”

“Really?” Jack replies sarcastically. 

“Couple ornaments. From when I was a kid,” Mac shrugs again, feigning nonchalance but Jack can see the tension thrumming under his skin. “You don’t have to warn him to drop the topic, Boze.” Mac continues without turning around. 

In the kitchen behind him, Bozer freezes mid-action, with Mac’s words, hand drawing across his neck, warning Jack to kill the subject.

“I’m not fragile.” Mac pulls the box to sit in front of him, fingers running along the lid.

“You don’t have to explain,” Jack says. 

"It was my mom’s. What’s left. It’s hard to look at them sometimes.”

“Hey, kid, really, you don’t have to do this now.”

Mac looks up, meeting Jack’s gaze. “I think I want to. It's been a while since I've seen them.” He turns in his seat to look into the kitchen at Bozer. “Thanks for taking care of them for me, again. I kind of wondered what happened to them after Harry died.” 

Bozer’s warm eyes are moist as he moves toward the table, patting Mac’s shoulder. 

“My- uh- my dad, after my mom died he um- he had a hard time with her stuff around,” Mac explains to Jack. He rubs the back of his neck. “He um, he tossed a lot of it. I guess. I don’t know. I mean I hope he donated it so that at least it would help someone else, but I had this sweater of hers that I hid in my closet. It smelled like her, and if I put it on it was almost like she… anyway, and when he found it he threw it in the trash so I don’t have a lot of hope that the rest of her stuff ended up anywhere else.”

Jack carefully clasps his hands in his lap, hoping to control the rage that burns in him, the tremor that races through his limbs, as he watches Mac’s blue eyes fill with tears at the memory, and vowing to punch James MacGyver in the face the moment he finds the man. Not only did a five year old, practically a baby, lose his mom, he lost everything that might have brought him some comfort during those tragic days.

“I found this box a couple weeks later, crawling around in the attic. Bozer hid it for me for years. Until after my dad left and I was pretty sure he wasn’t coming back.” 

Mac takes a deep breath then pulls off the lid, setting it aside. The spicy smell of cinnamon permeated the box, it’s faded over the years, taken on a musty scent but it evokes a wave of nostalgia and a feeling of home. 

He folds back the top layer of tissue paper, and reaches into the box for a small paper wrapped, awkwardly shaped package and unwrapping it. Jack frowns trying to figure out what it is when Mac holds it up. A plastic snowflake, streaks of glue across the front, yellowed, and just a few sparkles, the remnants of red and green glitter remain. A photo of a towheaded four year old with impossibly wide, blue eyes smiles up at him from the middle of the ornament. 

“Look at that smile, you were a troublemaker even then, weren’t you?” Jack teases, reaching out for a closer look.

Mac rolls his eyes, handing it over.

“Precocious,” Bozer agrees, as he looks over Jack’s shoulder. 

“That’s gotta go on the tree, dude,” Jack chuckles as Mac snatches the snowflake back from his teasing friends. 

Mac removes another bundle from the box. He peels away the paper, revealing a chipped red and green mug, with hand painted gingerbread men and holly scattered across the enamel. 

Jack nearly cries as he watches Mac run his fingers across the cracks.

“I broke it,” a sad smile crosses Mac’s face. “She was so tired, probably already sick then, but she always had time for me. I was trying to make her feel better and dropped the mug. I thought she’d be upset, but,” he shrugs. “I cried so hard about it, and she laughed, and we glued the pieces back together.” 

He sets the cup to the side, fingers lingering for a moment. 

A few red and gold glass balls are removed next. Antique and faded. A glass rocking horse ornament. A felt stocking with “Angus” written in puffy paint in four year old script with obvious help from a pre-school teacher. 

Mac blushes faintly when he removes a small teddy bear ornament, sound asleep on a sprig of holly, wearing a Santa’s hat proudly proclaiming “baby’s first christmas” in red lettering and Jack and Bozer “awwww” over the sweetness. 

A curious look crosses his face when he reaches the bottom of the box. He lifts a framed photograph from the bottom. “I don’t remember this.”

“I found it when I was moving in,” Bozer says, softly, wondering if he made a mistake in hiding it for Mac to find. “You’d already shipped out and I didn’t know how to tell you about it.”

Toddler Mac, Jack recognizing the kid instantly, he has barely changed in almost twenty years, and a beautiful young woman. Matching blonde hair, and blue eyes sparkling with mischief that he’s seen staring back at from his partner’s face. 

“You look like her,” Jack says, quietly, reverently. 

Mac swallows hard. “Yeah?”

“Spittin’ image.” 

“I don’t… I don’t really remember her,” Mac’s voice breaks on the last word. He clears his throat.

Jacks waits, letting Mac take all the time he needs. 

“I thought losing her was the worst thing that could happen, but forgetting her, wondering if I even remember her at all, that’s worse. She doesn’t deserve to be forgotten.”

Mac dashes a hand across his eyes. 

“Tell me what you remember about her,” Jack asks.

Mac swallows. “I know that she had blonde hair, but I think I’m remembering that from pictures. I remember her with knit hats. She had a bunch but there was a purple one that must have been her favorite because when I think of her, that’s the one I can see. She would put one on my head and tug it over my eyes and I thought that was hilarious.” He shakes his head, smiling faintly at the memory before frowning. “I didn’t realize she was so sick, but looking back… I wish I’d known.”

“You were a kid.”

“Yeah, but, I wonder sometimes, if she thought I didn’t care.”

“She never thought that,” Jack says decisively.

“How do you know?”

“If you didn’t realize it’s because she didn’t want you to realize. She didn’t want you to worry.”

Mac shrugs. 

“She wanted to let you grow up feeling safe and happy for as long as she could. If I was a parent, that’s what I’d want for my kid. I’d do anything to make them feel safe.” Jack reaches across the table, and puts his hand on Mac’s forearm. “She knows that you care. That you miss her.”

Mac brushes a hand across his eyes again. 

“And any time you want to talk about her, that you worry you’re forgetting what she was like, Bozer and I, we’re here to listen, to help you remember.” 

Mac smiles weakly. Sheepishly, like he doesn’t know what to do with this outpouring of love from his friends. Like he can't fathom the way they care for him, or how they cherish him like family.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe his ability understand those feeling and accept them being directed towards him were swallowed by loss and grief, but Jack vows to help him learn them again. 

  
  



End file.
